


professional courtesy

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Boss/Employee Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pre-Canon, Scent Marking, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Jon,” says Mr. Bouchard, slowly, with patience. “Would you like me to help you, or would you prefer I call you a cab home?”
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 172
Collections: Anonymous





	professional courtesy

**Author's Note:**

> written as thanks for a donation to a louisville bail fund! a/b/o is new to me but for charity i was willing to give it the ol' college try
> 
> jon is trans, and words used to describe his body are: cunt, cock/dick, folds.

It’s an unmitigated disaster of a Wednesday. Jon sleeps through two alarms, and his train is late, and in his rush to squeeze in through the closing employee entrance of the Institute behind someone from HR he manages to not only knock their coffee out of their hand, but get it all over _himself._ The HR woman swears at him and her eyes follow him all the way inside the building; he can feel them on the back of his skull. He does his best in the washroom with some paper towels, but the stain is still obvious on his long brown skirt, and eventually he gives up, slinks sheepishly down the hall and into the library, hoping no one will notice him. 

They do, of course, and he has to perform the walk of shame past several pairs of his colleagues’ staring eyes. He drops his bag behind the reference desk with everyone else’s, gathers a stack of books in his arms, hoping to at least somewhat hide the coffee stain, and slips out of sight as quickly as possible.

His second week at the Magnus Institute and already he’s fucked it up. And to make matters worse, once he is safely tucked away behind a bookshelf, just catching his breath, his phone buzzes in his pocket with a missed reminder, and he realizes with horror that he forgot to take his suppressants that morning. 

_Fuck._

No wonder everyone was staring at him.

He peeks out from behind the shelves. One of the guys from Artefact Storage turns and looks at him, and he avoids eye contact as best he can. He walks--well, power-walks--over to the reference desk and crouches down, hunting desperately in his bag, hoping maybe he’d dropped a pill or two at the bottom, but there’s nothing in there but dust bunnies and a loose cigarette, and he swallows a curse of frustration, fisting his hands in his skirt. 

_Fuck, fuck._

He can’t run home; he’s already mucked up the workday and his supervisor, Caroline, has been shooting him dirty looks from the checkout desk ever since he came in. Or maybe--shit. He chances a peek at her over the reference counter, at her tight coil of grey hair and severe glasses. Fuck. She is an alpha, isn’t she. He feels like he knew that.

_Idiot,_ he scolds himself. He crouches there behind the desk. He’s very aware, suddenly, of how much he must stink to everyone in the library. _Idiot, idiot. What kind of person forgets their suppressants on a workday?_

And in the third week of the month, no less. 

_Fuck._

Maybe he should plead sick, after all. Duck out and just ask forgiveness later. Say he threw up or something. But that would mean walking past Caroline and who knows how many other alphas in the room, all of whom have probably caught his scent already, all of whom are probably on tenterhooks wondering if they might be able to catch him alone. He resolves then and there to always keep a back stash in his satchel. Not that it will do him much good today.

He just has to get through the next few hours. He’ll sequester himself in the rare books lockup and find busy work. He can slip away at lunch. He’ll walk home. Email Caroline a long apology about a nasty stomach bug, curl up in bed. It’ll be fine. 

“Sims.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, reacts out of instinct, pops up from behind the reference desk like a fucking prairie dog. It’s Elliott, another researcher, who gives him a funny look. Jon clasps his hands over the stain on his skirt, trying to look casual.

“Yes. Hi.”

“Hi,” says Elliott slowly. He’s holding a manila folder, relatively slim. He holds it out. “Don’t forget you’ve got that two-week review with the Head at eleven.”

“I--what?”

“Review,” Elliott says, even more slowly. Jon sees his nose wrinkle and a shade pass over his face and feels his throat growing hot. Elliott clears his throat, furrows his brows as if in concentration. He proffers the folder again, somewhat aggressively. “Don’t be late.”

Jon takes the folder and is grateful when Elliott turns and leaves. He crouches down behind the desk again and swears under his breath again, about twenty times. Of course his new employee review is today, of all days. Of course he totally forgot about it. Of course he’s in heat just when he’s about to spend a good half hour in a closed room with his very handsome and very intimidating boss, who is also, probably, one of the most handsome and intimidating alphas Jon has ever met.

He almost laughs, slumps down on his behind and holds his knees to his chest. It feels nice and ensconced and private down here. For now, he decides, the safest place to hide out until he has to walk up the stairs to those huge, imposing double doors.

Maybe, by the pity of whatever cosmic force is toying with him today, the smell of stale coffee will be enough to drown out his pheromones, at least.

* * *

Luckily the halls are mostly empty when Jon half-walks, half-jogs out of the library, clutching the manila folder against his chest. He moves as quickly as he can past every door with a window in it, shoulders hunched. He’s starting to really feel it now--he’d been too preoccupied with being late this morning to really notice it. His forehead feels hot; his black turtleneck seems extra-constricting around his throat. 

The double staircase that leads up to the executive offices opens toward the lobby and the street, and Jon pauses at the bottom of it, looking longingly out the open doors toward the cars and people going by. He could make a run for it, he supposes. Mr. Bouchard would be annoyed, but that would be nothing compared to the sheer discomfort of sitting, slowly growing wetter and more feverish, in his presence for however long it took for the man to go over his new employee file.

He takes one step toward the lobby, and then sighs, stops. 

He can’t leave. Landing this job was a dream, and this review is important--he’s technically still in a probationary period; Caroline could dismiss him whenever she chose. And what, really, is more professional? Playing hooky from work because he was too much of an idiot to take his medicine, or powering through it?

This train of thought doesn’t really do anything to make him feel better. He groans, scratches at his neck, and starts up the stairs.

There’s a little bench beside the doors and a little sign on a hook: _Please wait to be called in._ Jon sits down and squeezes his thighs together, exhaling long through his mouth, jiggling one knee up and down. He doesn’t feel good. He rolls up the sleeves of his turtleneck and feels his temperature and his pulse. Both pretty high. He’s not scared of Mr. Bouchard, per se--from everything he’s seen of the man, he’s a consummate professional. At the new hires welcoming do, where there was a store-bought cake and a few of the executives and members of the board, Mr. Bouchard shook his hand, touched his elbow. Jon had been beet-red the rest of the afternoon, had thought about it the whole train ride home. He’s not scared. He just wishes this meeting were happening on literally any other day.

He waits about ten minutes, feeling sweatier and more uncomfortable with every passing moment. It’s been a long time since he’s gone through one of these. In uni, when exams and social responsibilities all converged at the wrong time and he found himself missing a few days of his suppressants, he’d holed up in the flat with the bedroom door shut and worked himself through it as necessary, and no one but Georgie had been the wiser. He doesn’t have Georgie now. She’d been so good at helping him through it. She’d bring him soup and tall glasses of water. What he wouldn’t give for her to round the corner, ridiculously, holding a tray of steaming broth, to take his hand and sweep him away to freedom and a nice warm bundle of blankets at home in his bed. Heaven.

The big double doors open and a young woman, who he remembers as another new hire in Artefact Storage, steps out. She glances at him, then at the stain on his skirt, and then starts down the staircase.

 _It’s just coffee,_ he wants to tell her, but he’s too mortified. 

“Mr. Sims?” The voice comes from the open door, smooth and unhurried. Jon stands,

feeling incredibly small, and consigns himself to whatever fate awaits him.

Mr. Bouchard’s office is beautiful: everything in polished cherry wood with accents of kelly green and gold hardware, portraits of former Heads arranged nicely on the walls with little brass plaques underneath, two nice wingback leather armchairs facing the baroque desk. Mr. Bouchard is sitting patiently behind it, in a similar chair upholstered in fine chocolate-brown velvet, signing off on something in a similar file to the one Jon has in his arms. Jon hesitates, unsure where to go.

Mr. Bouchard looks up at him from behind the glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “I’ll take that, Jonathan,” he says, smiling genially, and Jon hands it to him. “Do you prefer Jonathan?”

“Jon,” Jon says. His mouth is dry and it comes out rougher than he’d intended. “Jon is alright.”

“Have a seat, Jon.”

He obeys, uncomfortably aware with the press of his body into the seat that his underwear is cold and damp. He crosses his legs tightly one over the other.

“You’ve been with us two weeks now,” says Mr. Bouchard, opening the file, scanning the first page. It’s not a big file. No complaints from his supervisor as far as he knows. Besides the disaster of this morning, he’s been a timely and studious worker. “How are you finding the Research Department?”

“I’m enjoying it,” Jon says, though his voice is weak. He balls his fists and tries to press them as surreptitiously against his lap as possible. “Enjoying working with the--resources, that is. The books.” _Idiot._ He clears his throat. “And the patrons, of course, and everything.”

“Everything alright, Jon?” says Mr. Bouchard mildly, without looking up from the file.

Jon laughs, though it’s more of a helpless wheeze. “I’m feeling a little--under the weather, is all.”

Mr. Bouchard flips to the second page of the file and folds his hands loosely beneath his chin, scanning it. 

Jon clears his throat again, glancing at the door. How long is this going to take?

Mr. Bouchard unlaces his fingers, opens his palms, leans back a little in his chair. “Everything does seem to be in order--I’ll advise Ms. Barrow to lift your probationary status.”

“Oh,” Jon says, exhaling in relief. “I--thank you, sir.” He should probably be happier than he is. Right now he’s too aware of the sweat prickling on his scalp. 

“However,” Mr. Bouchard says, and Jon’s heart leaps into his throat. The Head’s keen blue eyes finally peel away from the file and fix on his face, and Jon freezes in his chair. Mr. Bouchard removes his glasses, folds them neatly on the desk beside him. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Human Resources discourages employees from coming to work in heat.”

Jon feels like he’s going to die.

“I--I’m so sorry,” he says, words spilling out of his mouth faster than his dizzy head can keep up with them. “I--I was late this morning, and usually I’ve--I’m sorry.” His face is red-hot, and not just from the usual temperature spike. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Mr. Bouchard smiles a little, and Jon feels a little panic in the back of his skull. What does _that_ mean? “And please forgive me if I sound crude--a skirt, when you smell the way you do--highly inadvisable.”

Jon feels like he’s going to die right now, on the spot. He can’t believe he’s just heard those words come out of the Institute Head’s mouth. He ducks his head, his whole body going hot with shame. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bouchard, I--I should have thought.”

“Not to worry,” Mr. Bouchard says, standing. “It does happen from time to time. Would you like me to inform Ms. Barrow--have her send you home for the day?”

“Oh, no,” Jon blurts out, and Mr. Bouchard pauses where he’s standing, one hand outstretched toward the telephone, the other adjusting his green silk tie. “I--that is, no, sir, I’d--I’d rather you didn’t.” He swallows past his heart in his throat. He has to save face somehow, or else he’ll never be anything to Mr. Bouchard other than that idiot omega who came to work reeking. “I can--I’d like to finish the workday.” He _doesn’t_ want to, and realizes as he says it that his plan of slipping away at lunch is ruined now. 

Mr. Bouchard finishes adjusting his tie, slowly, and Jon finds himself staring at his hands. They’re older than his, of course; he can see blue veins under the skin. He wonders how old Mr. Bouchard is. Middle-aged, certainly, but there’s a smoothness to him that feels vibrant, youthful. He’d be willing to bet the touch of those hands is smooth, too. He feels a soft little jolt of lightning in his belly. Not a good thought.

Mr. Bouchard is frowning. “I would be much more comfortable if you went home for the day, Mr. Sims. We wouldn’t want a discussion with Human Resources on your employee file so soon, would we?”

Jon doesn’t want to think about what that means. “I’d just like to get my work done,” he says weakly, his voice so quiet he worries Mr. Bouchard hasn’t heard him at all.

Mr. Bouchard takes a breath through his nose, and Jon realizes, with the door shut and his seat so close to the desk, that he must be able to smell _everything._ Lightning shoots through his groin again and Jon grinds his jaw. This is all just so terribly _inconvenient,_ at the end of the day. 

“Come here,” Mr. Bouchard says suddenly, and Jon, without really thinking about it, obeys. “Sit on the edge of the desk, if you will.”

Jon, confused, nevertheless does what he’s told. If the Head of the Institute is telling him to do something, he figures following orders is a good way to buy back some more grace toward keeping his job, and keeping these embarrassing details out of his file. He perches on the beveled edge of the desk, his toes just barely touching the floor in their polished black oxfords. 

Mr. Bouchard comes to stand beside him, and Jon waits, expecting him to say something else--scold him in more detail, maybe, or explain to him in condescending terms what a mistake he’s made. Instead, Mr. Bouchard leans to the side, grasps the hem of Jon’s skirt, and pulls it back and up and over his knees.

Jon starts. Instinctively he grabs for the fabric and tries to push it back down, but Mr. Bouchard’s grip is firm. 

“I will let you go back down to the library and finish your workday,” Mr. Bouchard says, calmly--the heel of his palm is touching the flushed warm skin of Jon’s bare thigh--“if you allow me to help minimize your predicament.”

“What?” he asks. His mouth is dry. This close to Mr. Bouchard, he thinks he can smell a sort of deep, earthy scent emanating from him--he feels lightheaded, feels the urge to squeeze his knees together.

Mr. Bouchard sighs, smiling the way one might smile at an ignorant child. “If you’d like to be left alone, it would be helpful to smell of--someone else. If you catch my meaning.”

Jon stares at him blankly for a moment until, finally, the voice of reason at the back of his head pipes up. _He’s asking to fuck you,_ it says, and Jon says, “Oh.”

“Purely as a professional courtesy. You are, of course, welcome to decline.” His hand is still in Jon’s lap, a minor weight against his thighs. Exposed to the cool air of the room, Jon has goosebumps on his legs, is extremely aware of the edge of the desk pressing against his cunt.

“That doesn’t seem allowed,” Jon says, breathlessly. “Is it--you’re my boss, I--”

“Jon,” says Mr. Bouchard, slowly, with patience. “Would you like me to help you, or would you prefer I call you a cab home?”

What would it look like, on the day of his review, to leave early for vague, unspecified medical reasons, after he was already late, already made an ass of himself in the library, stinking, probably distracting everyone he walked past? He’d look incompetent, flaky. Caroline would pass him off on some shit filing job, if she didn’t outright ignore Mr. Bouchard’s recommendation and let him go. And he really does feel awful. He might be able to get through the day, he thinks, if he could just get a bit of relief, a bit of release. And it’d look good on his record. No sick days. _A willingness to push through difficult circumstances._ He can put it on his CV, he thinks, with bitter humor.

He doesn’t answer aloud; he’s too mortified. Instead he parts his knees, just a little.

Mr. Bouchard smiles at him. With one hand he unbuttons the cuff of his right sleeve, and rolls it up, neatly. Then he slides his hand into the dark warmth beneath Jon’s skirt and finds the waistband of his underwear.

Jon sucks in a breath; his hips inch forward involuntarily. Mr. Bouchard’s fingers are cool, almost cold. He feels them gently easing his pants off around his narrow hips, exposing just enough of his skin. With his other hand Mr. Bouchard rolls Jon’s skirt up further, bunching it around his waist. Jon feels himself flush, head to toe. His turtleneck feels unbearably hot. He wonders if Mr. Bouchard will take it off him.

Mr. Bouchard hums, with what sounds like vague interest, when his hand slips fully inside Jon’s underwear and parts his folds, sliding easily in the slick that, by now, is soaking them. “My. We are in a state,” he says calmly, with something like fondness. Jon tries to remember to breathe. This isn’t something he normally does, in or out of heat. It means he’s extra-sensitive when the time does come, and the press of Mr. Bouchard’s fingers against his cock is almost too much already.

“I can use my hand,” Mr. Bouchard says, as mildly as if he’s laying out a budget, and Jon bucks against his touch, feeling his breath coming faster and more shallow. “Or I can do it properly. It’s up to you.”

Jon’s head is swimming, but even past the dizziness and state of semi-shock, of _this can’t really be happening_ that he’s in, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he ended up on his back on the desk with Mr. Bouchard _inside him,_ he’d make such a wreck of himself that he wouldn’t be able to work at all the rest of the day--maybe not even the rest of the week. 

“Hand,” he says, a little stupidly. “Please.”

“It should do,” says Mr. Bouchard. “I’ll be quick.”

 _Please don’t be,_ Jon thinks. Then berates himself, internally, for even thinking it.

That earthy smell is getting stronger. Mr. Bouchard bends over him to get a better angle, and Jon leans back, parting his legs as far as he can with his underwear still trapped around his thighs, squeezing his eyes shut in shame. He’s probably getting the desk wet. Oh, God. Mr. Bouchard slips one, two fingers inside him with ease, with a practical air, as if this is just another routine office task, as if he does this once a week at scheduled hours. Maybe he does. Jon wouldn’t know. He hisses at the stretch as Mr. Bouchard adds a third finger, easy as you please. He pushes forward, down onto them, reflexively, seeking that pressure, and Mr. Bouchard, with what Jon can only describe as kindness, curls his fingers a little, _right_ where Jon needs them.

He gasps, shudders, grabs Mr. Bouchard’s shoulders without meaning to. 

“Hopefully,” Mr. Bouchard says, ignoring the way Jon is clutching the fabric of what is no doubt a very expensive suit, fucking his fingers in and out of Jon’s aching cunt, “my scent will be enough to deter any of your colleagues from--well--interrupting your work.” He slips his fingers out just long enough to tug and roll over Jon’s cock, small and fat and straining, and Jon whines, humiliated. “I’d like to make you come, if you’ll allow, Jon.”

“Please,” he breathes, trying desperately to maintain some kind of composure.

“For the pheromonal effect.”

Sure. Pheromones. Jon’s head isn’t on straight enough to be thinking about things like that. He wonders, suddenly, if everyone in the building will be able to tell it was _Mr. Bouchard_ who did this--if he’ll stink of him all day, if everyone will smell him as he walks past and murmur to themselves behind their hands. How many other employees has Mr. Bouchard done this for? He had said it happens, from time to time.

Now he’s thinking about the smell, and it’s filling his head, making his eyelids flutter. The pace of the hand inside him picks up, crooking and dragging, more and more pressure until he feels that mounting weight that means he’s close. Without thinking or asking, he reaches down for his cock, rubs it hard, feels himself blush crimson to see his hand and Mr. Bouchard’s working in tandem between his legs, almost touching, both shiny with slick.

He makes a little noise as he feels the first jolts coming, the first spasms of his hips, and Mr. Bouchard fucks him harder, grinding the heel of his palm into Jon’s dick, almost painfully. He’s aware of nothing except the smell of him and the building orgasm. He feels drenched in that smell, drenched in his own wetness, filthy. His hair is coming loose from its ponytail, his glasses teetering on the tip of his nose. 

Mr. Bouchard gives one last hard crook of his fingers and Jon comes, clenching vice-like around his fingers, crying out. His body jerks forward and his legs lock at the knees, and Mr. Bouchard remains still inside him while he spasms through it, giving little broken noises, still clutching his arms.

It takes a long time for him to come down. He isn’t sure why. He thinks part of it might be the smell, lingering in his sinuses; every time he catches another hint of it he feels little aftershocks, little jerking movements against the fingers still slotted nicely inside him. But eventually he does come down, and Mr. Bouchard removes his hand from between his legs, pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and carefully wipes his fingers down, between each digit and knuckle. When he is finished, he disappears from Jon’s sight, back around to his brown velvet chair.

Jon, still shaking, has to take a minute to catch his breath. He looks down at the edge of the desk between his legs, past his bunched-up skirt and the wet spot in his underwear where they’re still taut around his legs. He slides carefully off the desk and pulls up his underwear, shivering--it feels cold, uncomfortable against his cunt, still tingling and damp, still feeling loose and slick from the onslaught of Mr. Bouchard’s hand. He smoothes his skirt down again, feels at the back of it awkwardly, to see if he’s left a damp spot there, too.

“I think that should keep you well enough for the rest of the day,” Mr. Bouchard says, clearing his throat. Jon turns. He’s already settled back into his chair and is signing off on the last form in Jon’s file, with a huge, looping signature. He sets his pen aside, flips the file closed, and holds it out. “Here you are--give this to Ms. Barrow for your records. Your probationary status should be lifted by the end of the week.”

He’s smiling, contentedly. It’s a genuine smile, though small and restrained. Jon doesn’t know what to make of it. He takes the file, holds it against his chest again. 

“Thank you,” he manages to stammer out.

He can smell himself, now that his body isn’t so close to Mr. Bouchard’s. Not his deodorant or hair product, but that same earthy, deep smell, like wet stone. He wonders how many showers it will take to wash that off. 

“Let’s be certain it doesn’t happen again, shall we?” Mr. Bouchard says, looking at him again from behind his glasses, and Jon feels as if he could melt into the floor. He nods mutely, and Mr. Bouchard smiles again. “Excellent. In that case, Mr. Sims, enjoy the rest of your workday.”

Jon leaves feeling dazed.

In the end, he does go home early. He hands his file off to Caroline, works a few more hours in the lockup, even when everyone else has gone on their lunch. At three he begs a headache, and though he knows Caroline can smell him--as can everyone else in the big, vaulting room--she waves him off, and, gratefully, he hails a cab and is home by four.

Without even stopping to take off his shoes or his satchel, he marches into his bedroom and snatches up the bottle of suppressants that sits on his nightstand, next to his lamp and old wind-up alarm clock. He shakes out a dose into his hand and swallows them dry, and then he strips, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. Those, more than anything, stink of Mr. Bouchard.

This will never happen again. He won’t allow it to, and he won’t ever tell a single soul. If they want to speculate, that’s fine. He’ll be keeping mum. He is, after all, a professional.


End file.
